


The Last Resort

by orphan_account



Category: American Horror Story, Original Work
Genre: Child Abuse, Date Rape, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Ghosts, Guys this story is just getting more unpleasant and I am so sorry, Haunted House, Homophobia, Horror, Implied Torture, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Inspired by American Horror Story, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, multiple character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aidan Murphy, a successful crime author, moves out to a secluded San Francisco mansion with his ailing mother for a little bit of peace and quiet.  Little does he know that his family are not the only residents of the stately, old manor with a macabre history as black a night itself.  </p><p>Inspired by American Horror Story: Murder House and unbeta-ed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to The Last Resort

**THE LAST RESORT  
** CHAPTER ONE – WELCOME TO THE LAST RESORT

Aidan Murphy wiped an arm across his brow as the sun glared down on him through the driver’s side window of the rented moving van.  It was the beginning of Summer in San Francisco and the last turn had brought the light into his peripheral vision, leaving him with an unpleasant squint.  It was only the newest irritation in what had already proven to be a long and trying drive.  If it wasn’t his mother going eerily silent for hours at a time, it was bathroom breaks and the lunatics that seemed to inhabit the road these days.  It was enough to make St. Peter tear his hair out, never mind a poor, put upon crime author who only wanted his peace and quiet. 

Needless to say, Aidan supremely hoped this move was worth it.

The sun floated lazily behind a cloud, giving him time to think as the road they were on branched off and started to wind up a hill.  He checked his GPS once just to make sure this was the right way.  He knew the house was supposed to be secluded, but he couldn’t see another building around for quite a ways.  It was an illusion, really...there was another line of houses not too far off, but they were separated by a buffer of trees and the hill itself.  That was a bit more than he’d been expecting in such a crowded corner of the world.  At least no one would disturb him.

The writer rolled down his window to catch a bit of fresh air as the road sprawled lazily between two massive oak trees.  Just beyond them loomed a wrought-iron fence that surrounded the entirety of the property, just like in the pictures. 

Aidan pulled the moving van to a stop just in front of the gate, giving his currently-silent mother a long look, wondering what she thought, before popping the door on his side.  He plucked a set of old keys from the cup-holder before stepping up to the fence to unlock it.  As he did, he looked up and suddenly saw the house for the first time.  He blinked in wonder at it.  Of course, it had been nice in the pictures, but the fact that it looked this way in real life wasn’t something he’d prepared himself for.

He found himself looking up at austere red brick and creamy-coloured moulding all around the windows (of which there were many).  The smooth façade of the front was broken up by a half-protruding tower along the front which likely housed a rotunda room inside.  The wind shifted and for a moment, he almost felt like the mansion was looking back at him, giving its own assessment of his character even while he did the same.  For a minute, he forgot about the keys and just took in all the details of the house.  It was far too big for the two of them, sure, but he knew his mother would like her own studio and he’d need an office and some of her old friends would come around and it would be blessedly quiet.

The man startled when a voice spoke up near his shoulder, “It’s almost alive, isn’t it?”

Aidan looked down at his mother’s silver hair, wondering when she’d gotten out of the car.  It almost worried him how quiet she could be, what with the early stages of her dementia.  She wasn’t very far gone, but there was no telling how far it would develop and if she was still this silent if that time came it would be a nightmare to care for her. 

He tried to crack a joke, “Hope it doesn’t mind us setting up shop.”

Almost as if oblivious to his effort, his mother ran her hand over the lock on the gate, “That is the question, isn’t it.”

“Mom?” Aidan asked, one brown eyebrow raised behind the wire rims of his glasses.

She shook herself and started back to the van, “Nothing, dear.  Let’s go in, hm? I need to stretch my legs.”

“….Yeah, sure mom,” the writer said, watching her for a minute before turning back to his task.

The gate unlocked with an unhappy creak and groaned open wide with a bit of a push.  Aidan returned to the truck and pulled it through and up to the side of the house so that they could start unpacking once they had the energy and the movers showed up.  God knew Aidan couldn’t do it all himself and he wasn’t going to ask his mother to do it.  He knew she’d at least insist on moving her painting supplies, though. 

He went back to close the gate up until the movers arrived once he’d stopped the truck and as he passed the front windows, he felt that uncanny sensation of being watched all over again.

New places were so strange.

~~~

The inside of the house was as lovely as the outside, stately and grand and reminiscent of an era long past.  The sun poured in through the front windows, warming the wood paneling of the floor.  Aidan traced the whorls of the wood with his eyes, catching hints of red and gold in the grain…Cherry wood, then, and so dark it had likely been here since the house was built.  The walls were creamy coloured and accented with wainscoting of the same rich wood as the floor.  Even the antique furniture was still here, the coverings newly removed in anticipation of their arrival.  The kitchen had been modernized, of course, but it almost seemed like nothing had been touched since the house had been built in 1923.

The living room was a thing of beauty.  The windows there made of stained glass in bright greens and blues, complimenting the thick Persian rug that sprawled out across the floor like an indolent cat in front of the fireplace.  It separated a golden-yellow wing-back chair from the plush couch his mother was currently sinking into, looking at peace.  Aidan was grateful that there wasn’t a television.  He never liked the things…too noisy by half.

At the moment, they were taking a break from the hustle and bustle of shifting their entire lives halfway across the country.  The movers had arrived only an hour or two after them with the second truck and things had started being unpacked right away.  Everything was sitting in boxes in their assorted rooms now and for the first time the writer really had time to look around the house where he’d be spending the foreseeable future.  It was beautiful, but something about it was strange.  It niggled at the back of his brain…nothing huge…but the smallest feeling that perhaps he was in someone else’s territory.

It was probably just all the old furniture and the newness of the space.  They’d grow into each other surely.

He looked over when he noticed his mother was just staring, “Do you like it, mom?”

“Yes, dear.  It’s a little overwhelming.  I like it,” the woman said, trailing her fingertips over the upholstery of the couch she was lying on.

Aidan couldn’t help but smirk a little.  His mother always seemed so taken by things that would have unnerved someone else.  She delighted in things that she described as ‘overwhelming’ or ‘uncomfortable’.  All it said to her was that there was more yet to feel.  It was the artist in her, the younger man supposed and it was endearing.

“But…” she said, her eyes going a little vague.

Her son perked up, anticipating an episode.

She pointed towards a strange shadow beyond one of the stained glass windows, “I think one of the movers is lost.  Would you go see if he needs help?”

Brow furrowing, Aidan nodded and walked through the living room and into the foyer on his way to the front door.  He didn’t expect the door to open before he got there…didn’t expect the slim figure to be standing there, backlit by the sunlight.  He wasn’t a mover.  None of the movers looked like that.  They were both relatively burly men (not to mention, Aidan was fairly sure they’d already left a little while ago).  The person in his front door stood there without saying anything for a long minute, giving him time to take the newcomer in.

He was lean as a cat’s shadow with long limbs that, along with angular cheekbones and very large china-blue eyes, made him seem almost delicate.  He was dressed in a dark gray button-down and a pair of black trousers that made his slim legs seem a little longer than they were.  His hair was a soft honeyed brown, falling down across his brow in a side-part, but out of his face.  Most of it was tucked up underneath a herringbone tweed flat cap. 

“Ah, can I help you?” Aidan asked, adjusting his glasses and trying to hide his displeasure at an unannounced stranger.

The young man in the doorway let his soft pink lips quirk up so faintly they barely moved before responding, “I actually came to ask you the very same thing.”

The answer was just evasive enough to irritate Aidan further, “Are you one of our neighbors or something? I don’t mean to be rude, but we’ve had a long drive so if you wouldn’t mind…?”

Presumptuous, the young man took a step into the foyer, running his hand over the wainscoting, “No, you misunderstand.  I’m the Caretaker of the mansion and I was told the new owners would be arriving today.  I came to see if there was any aid I could offer today.”

Aidan was taken aback by the answer and looked the younger (surely younger) man over again, “…You don’t look like a Caretaker.”

The other man tipped his chin up and let his eyes go half-lidded, self-assured, “Sir, I guarantee I know more about this house than the man who built it.”

The writer didn’t know what to say to that, so the young man continued.

He held out one slender, fine-boned hand, “Benton Marie, at your service.”

“Aidan Murphy…pleased to meet you.  I was…I was about to make a cup of tea.  Would you care to come in?” Aidan said, realizing he’d come off a bit rudely.

Benton dipped his head with a gracious nod and waited for Aidan to walk him back to the kitchen though something in his eyes let the other man know that he knew perfectly well where it was.  The little slip of nothing settled himself in a chair at a newly installed breakfast bar to wait for his tea.  Aidan watched him for any sign that he was bluffing, but to be honest, the young man looked more comfortable in his house than he did.  He blew out a puff of air and chided himself for being so unreasonable.

Trying to smooth over their introduction, Aidan turned to him while the kettle boiled, “Sorry if I was a bit…short with you.  I’m not used to visitors.”

“I assure you that I’m not offended, really.  I understand that you drove from Chicago to join us here on the West Coast,” Benton replied lightly, resting his chin on the back of one of his hands.

“Yeah.  I was…am…a crime writer.  It was a good place for inspiration,” Aidan said.

“Ah yes, gangsters and guns and all that.  Well, in case you weren’t aware, we have our own wild history, even out here in San Francisco Mr. Murphy,” Benton replied, tapping a free finger against the counter top absently.

“Yeah.  You must be a pretty big fan of history yourself,” Aidan looked for a new line of conversation as the kettle whistled.

He stood to get it and he could hear the young man behind him ask curiously, “Oh? What gives you that impression, Mr. Murphy?”

“Well, I mean, to know the entire history of a house this old by the time you’re 25 and to work as its Caretaker.  Makes me think you’re pretty big into it,” he explained.

He heard Benton chuckle as he poured out the cups of tea, “Pretty clever.  Yes, I suppose you’re right, but not completely.  I’m not much of a bookworm…not very interested in history as a whole.  This house just fascinated me, I guess.”

“Oh? And what’s so fascinating about my house then?” Aidan asked, pouring out a third cup of tea to steep so he could bring it to his mother.

“Everything.  It’s got quite a story, Mr. Murphy.  Do you even know why it was built?”

Aidan spoke while he went to check on his mother, finding her asleep on the couch, before going back to his guest, “To be someone’s house, I guess.”

“I can’t tell how you got to be a crime-writer.  No sense of embellishment,” Ben teased dryly, “And it was built as a fortress by a very jealous gang-lord who didn’t want to see his lover…falling into the wrong hands, shall we say?”

“Built a castle to lock the princess up in?” Aidan asked, holding out a cup of tea.

“You could say that, yes,” Benton said, accepting his cup and blowing across it.

Aidan digested that with interest before curiosity got the better of him again, “Alright, so you’re our Caretaker then…”

“No,” Benton cut in curtly, “I’m the House’s Caretaker.”

Surprised, Aidan let silence sink in for a moment before getting his footing again, “Okay, so you’re the house’s Caretaker.  What exactly does your job entail?”

The young man sipped his tea before answering, in no hurry, “I’m here to answer any questions you have about the Mansion day or night and I handle small repairs.  I can also sort out some of the gardening for you and I can tell you what is and isn’t allowed on the premises.”

“Things aren’t allowed here?” the writer asked, “But this is my house.”

It earned him an arch look from the Caretaker and he held up his hands, placating.

Benton folded his hands over the steam of his cup, letting it curl up around his palms, “You live here now, yes, Mr. Murphy, but this house has stood since 1923.  It needs respect and care.  It’s a very special place, so I have to ask that you just show some decency while you live here.”

“You don’t have to worry about us then, I promise.  My mom’s a painter and I’m a writer.  We’re pretty quiet people,” Aidan reassured the other.

The Caretaker nodded and took a final sip of his tea before standing, “Well, I’ve got to be getting off now.  Is there anything you need to know before I go?”

“No, but it would be great if you could come back tomorrow to sort of give us a briefing?” Aidan asked, wanting to get off on a good relationship with the younger man.

“That would be good.  I’ll see you then,” Benton readjusted his hat and turned to walk back towards the foyer, showing himself out.

He paused and put one hand on the door-frame as if thinking.

At last, he simply said, “Welcome home, sir.”

With that, he walked away and the door closed behind him.

~~~

The rest of the day was spent unpacking and now Aidan was laid out in his bed, staring up at the ceiling.  His mom was situated in the bedroom just across the hall from his so he wasn’t worried about her.  He was just letting the aches of his bones settle from the long day after an even longer drive.  He yawned and stretched, mulling over the events of the day.  He thought back on the strange little Caretaker who seemed to take such fierce pride in the proper running of the house.  No wonder the place still looked so good even after 90 years if all the Caretakers were anywhere near as dedicated as Benton seemed to be.

His eyes were just starting to slip closed when he could have sworn he heard something.

Voices.

They were faint, but he was certain that he was hearing voices.  They were hushed, but there were many all rushing one over the other.  It was eerie and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rising.  It was like listening to the hissing of snakes that only seemed to form words every once in awhile.  The breath caught in Aidan’s chest.

He rose slowly from bed, his eyes darting around as he tried to figure out where the sounds were coming from.

Barefoot, he didn’t make much noise save for some shuffling and the occasional creak from the aging floorboards.  His throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton and his joints felt creaky from the strain of moving slowly and carefully.  His knuckles had gone white around the handle of a hammer he’d been using to hang up some of his mother’s paintings earlier in the day.  It had been near to hand and so he’d picked it up as a form of self-defense out of instincts.

The sounds grew fainter as he went through the house as if they weren’t even inside at all.  The window.  They must have been coming in from the window.  That meant there were people outside.  Gingerly, Aidan changed his course to the front door and pushed it open.  It wasn’t as silent as he would have hoped and so resounded out across the front lawn and up between the two old oaks with a horror-flick squeak that sounded nearly deafening to him.

Aidan winced and looked over to where three shadows jerked suddenly by his gate.  A flurry of whispers and half-hysterical voices filled his ears.

At least he could understand what they were saying now.

“Oh shit,” one said, sounding near to wetting himself, “It’s him! Run!”

“I told you this was a bad idea!” another voice said, almost drowned out by the frantic scuffling of feet.

“I don’t wanna die here, man!” the first said again while Aidan stood on the porch and listened.

The third didn’t say anything, just fought to go back over the gate.

It was kids.  It was just stupid kids…but what the hell were they doing trying to get into his house and what was with all the panic?

“Hey! What are you guys doing?” he shouted, irritated at the trespass.

A few screams erupted and they scrambled over the fence as fast as they could before running down the twisting road back towards the main part of the city.  Idiot kids.

Tired and annoyed, Aidan turned to go back to bed, locking the door firmly behind him.

He never noticed the figure watching him, silent and still, from beneath the shadow of the oak trees.


	2. Hell House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aidan mulls over the attempted invasion from the night before and decides to find out a bit more about the house's history from Benton.

**THE LAST RESORT  
** CHAPTER TWO – HELL HOUSE

The next morning while Aidan was making breakfast and his mother was sat at the bar, he was still shaken by the strange events of the previous day.  Between his mother’s odd initial personifications of the house, the rather forceful Caretaker they’d inherited and the attempted break-in from the night before, he wasn’t sure what to think.  Of course, it was all probably just coincidence, the lot of it.  His mother was often overly sensitive to things and the children had probably just seen the moving van earlier and came to investigate.  It didn’t explain the things they had said, though.  Maybe he’d ask Benton when the other came around.

Benton was still a curiosity, too, but not as much of a mystery.  He was a young man, probably in his first big job, with a lot to prove about his suitability to the task.  He’d probably calm down when he saw that Aidan had no plans to throw him out of his position.  After all, the writer had been there once not too long ago himself, too young to be taken seriously even when he had all the skills and more.  Aidan did want a good working relationship with the kid if he was going to be around to check on the house frequently.

A bit of bacon grease popped and hit him on the hand, breaking him out of his thoughts.  He winced and moved around, putting food on plates, figuring the pop on the hand was a good enough indicator that it was time to get away from hot appliances.  He set the plates down with some silverware and then situated himself at the bar across from his mother, who looked as calm as ever…almost distant…as if she were able to commune with the universe on a level beyond.

Aidan tapped a fork on her plate with a smile, “Hey mom.  Got any plans for the day?”

She blinked at him and then reached for her cup of tea, “I think I might christen the new art studio and go for a walk.”

“Outside?” Aidan couldn’t quite suppress his internal wince, knowing his mother would sense it.

Sure enough, her face took on a stubborn cast and she pursed her lips, “Son, it’s still early days yet.  I don’t need a nanny to go for a walk around our own property.  You don’t have to start breaking out the child-safety leashes and adult diapers until at least tomorrow.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, mom,” he reached out to touch her hand.

She allowed the touch and curled her thumb over the top of his hand, “I know you didn’t, dear, but your old mom’s a lot tougher than you give her credit for.  I’ve got a few years left in me at least, don’t you think? Certainly long enough for a little unsupervised walk.”

“Yeah…yeah of course.  I’m sorry.  I just worry is all,” the writer reassured.

It earned him a gentle swat on the hand, “You should be worrying about your next deadline instead of me.  When did your editor want your next book in?”

“Not for awhile.  I haven’t even figured out what I’m going to write about this time,” Aidan said, gently withdrawing his hand and trying again at breakfast.

His mother looked thoughtful for a minute before gesturing with her fork, “This!”

“…Beg pardon?” Aidan asked, not following her only half-verbalized leaps of logic.

“This house.  Surely it has a history worth writing about,” she said, spearing a bit of egg for emphasis.

“Mom, I’m a crime writer.  The house is great, but I really don’t think…” he paused and considered.

Hadn’t Benton said that the house was built by a gang-lord for his lover? Maybe there was a story there worth telling.  Even if he didn’t end up writing about that particular gangster, the story might at least be a foot-hold into another story.  Who knows? Maybe his fanbase would enjoy reading about some of the West Coast crime for once.  Maybe Benton wouldn’t mind telling him the story when he came over today.

Almost as if following his train of thought, his mother gave him a smug little smile, “I told you.”

Aidan smiled back, “Just gave me an idea is all.  I’ll talk to Benton when he comes over an see if he can’t give me some information.”

“Benton?” his mother queried, looking curious suddenly.

Oh, right.  She’d been asleep when the Caretaker had come over to introduce himself. 

Aidan explained with a note of apology in his tone, “He’s the Caretaker of the house, mom.  Sorry, I forgot to tell you.  He stopped by while you were napping yesterday.  He’s alright.  A little intense, but alright.”

“Well, what did he say, then?”

Aidan swallowed a mouthful of bacon before responding, “He says a mobster built it for his little lady to keep other men from peeping or getting any funny ideas.”

“Crime and lust.  Two of your readers’ favourite things, right?” She replied with a wry grin.

“You know them better than I do, I think,” Aidan said with a smile of his own.

Companionable silence fell over the kitchen as the warm morning sun filtered in and chased away the lurking shadows of night.

~~~

Benton ended up knocking sharply on the door while Aidan’s mother was up in her studio where she’d likely remain for a few hours yet.  She was straightening up her things and getting them laid out the way she liked and her art supplies were sacred.  It was more of a ceremony to set up her art studio than a process.

Aidan came to answer the door and smiled at the young Caretaker, “Ah, nice to see you again, Benton.  Come in.  I’ve got some things I want to talk to you about.”

“Second day in and you’re already curious.  I only wish I could say it was a record,” the slender man said as he came in and made his way towards the living room, “Let’s get comfortable then.”

The writer followed and said, “A few kids tried to break in last night.  I scared the hell out of them when I came out, so I don’t think they’ll be a problem, but I wonder what the appeal of my house is that’d bring a couple of kids that far away from home that late.”

“Did they damage anything?” Benton asked, his blue eyes going icy.

Aidan held both of his hands up in a warding gesture, “No no.  They only made it as far as the gate.  I just…they just said some things that got me curious.”

Benton leaned back in his chair, looking like a lord, “And what did they say, then?”

“Well…”the writer grunted a bit as he sat down on the couch across from the Caretaker, “If I remember right, one of them yelled ‘oh shit, it’s him’ and then another one of the little brats said ‘I don’t wanna die here’.  That mean anything to you?”

Benton’s elbows had come up to rest on the arms of the wingback chair after sitting, his fingertips steepling up beneath his nose.  Aidan almost felt the urge to squirm underneath the intense stare of those pale blue eyes as they regarded him and him alone.  The Caretaker even continued to stare in silence long after Aidan had finished telling his tale.  An uncomfortable silence settled down between them like a layer of dust.

Finally, like a beast shifting free of hibernation, Benton sat back and spoke, “I’m sorry they disturbed you.  I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“What? No, Benton, I just…” Aidan puffed out a breath, “I just wanted to know what got them so spooked.  I wondered if there was a history or something I should know about.”

“Every house has a history, Mr. Murphy,” the slim man with the icy eyes replied calmly.

“Please, just Aidan will be fine,” the writer held up one hand.

“Little fire,” Benton replied absently, as if had just escaped him.

“Excuse me?” Aidan asked, eyebrows rising.

“Little fire.  It’s what your name means,” the slim youth responded, gesturing with just his fingertips.

The writer seemed amused and adjusted his glasses, “Yeah, actually.  How’d you know that?”

“Old Irish family.  Goes way back.  I’m the first Generation actually born on these shores,” he explained, standing and walking over to one of the stained glass windows as if to inspect them.

“Oh? You don’t sound Irish,” Aidan said with a smile.

He found himself pinned by that pale blue gaze again, “I’ve lived far enough away from my home and family for long enough.  Little things like where you come from tend to slip away from you after so long.”

“Sorry,” Aidan said, “I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”

“It’s fine, Aidan.  We live and we learn and we move on.  Can’t cling to what we can’t keep, after all.  Down that road lies madness,” Benton told him.

Impressed by the mature, quiet manner of his Caretaker, Aidan tried to steer the conversation back on the track he wanted, “Anyway…all that aside, I really just wanted to know more about the history of the house.  The realtor tried to tell me it was pretty boring.”

“Ah, did I pique your interest yesterday with that silly gangster story?” the slender Caretaker asked, his face taking on the expression of humouring a small child.

“Yes, actually.  See, I think I might have told you I was a crime author…”

“You said you were a writer, not what subject.”

Aidan plucked off his glasses and gave them a polish, “Ah, right.  Well, I’m a crime writer and I was thinking there might be something to this house’s history worth writing about.  Would you mind telling me about it?”

“There’s nothing interesting to say.  The man who built the house was a gangster, yes, but if you’re looking for another Capone, you’ll be disappointed.  He was a boring old man.  Never amounted to much,” Benton snorted.

“Clearly he amounted to something if he had the money to build this place,” Aidan responded with some humour to the Caretaker’s dry rebuff.

“Petty jealousy drives men to do insane things, Aidan, but it doesn’t make them worthy of history books,” this time Benton’s tone had an air of finality to it.

“Ah…well…that’s disappointing.  Did anything else ever happen in this house?” the writer tried, a little put-out that Benton wasn’t even up for some Historian gossip.

“No.  This house, for all its beauty, has been quiet as a tomb since 1923.  Nothing worthy of your books ever happened here, I’m afraid,” the Caretaker said, standing gracefully from his chair and tugging at the waistcoat he wore today.

“Well, sorry to bother you about it then.  Will you be around for awhile?” Aidan asked, trying not to feel thwarted.

“Yes.  I’ve some work to do up in the attic today.  If you need me, you know where I’ll be.”

Aidan watched Benton’s slim back as the Caretaker disappeared out of the living room, bound for other parts of the house.  Frustrated over the loss of what might have been a good story for a new novel, the author sat himself down heavily in the chair that the little Irish man had just vacated, wondering what to do next.  Ah well.  He did have to go and stock up on some groceries in town.  Maybe he’d ask around for some stories there.  After all, if this was a town where gang lords had lived and loved once then it had to have its own stories even if the silly house didn’t.

Resolved, he stood and went to go get his keys.  He wouldn’t tell his mother he was going out.  She’ be unreachable in her ‘zone’ anyway.  He’d leave a note on the door and she’d appreciate it just as much. 

It was time to crack this town open and see what marrow its bones were hiding.

~~~

Benton slipped up to the attic, sleek as a stalking cat, trailing a poor mood behind him.  It seemed he’d have to do a little bit of damage control again.  Stupid boys always making such a scene for the new guests every single time.  They were going to be the death of him, he was sure.  Ah well, he didn’t like to be the bad guy, but he couldn’t let them go on scaring Aidan.  It simply wouldn’t do.

When he reached the top floor of the house he found the little cord that dangled down.  One swift tug on it had the stairs descending, the door of the attic gaping like a hungry maw.  Benton ascended, his shoes making soft, ominous clicking noises on the steps as he went up into the darkness, shoulders straight and relaxed.  He slipped up into the dusty, dim attic that sat like a skull-cap atop the rest of the house, holding just as many secrets as any hot human brain…if not more.

He picked up a shovel from the ground and tapped its spade on the floor, making the whole attic echo with the hollow din, “Really, boys, do we have to have the amateur theatre routine every time?”

There was silence.

Then, one little head poked out from behind a rotting steamer trunk.  He was shaking with nerves, eyes wide and glassy.  He was the little boy who had been too afraid to speak the night before and it seemed like he was still too deep in nerves to say a word.  Another boy appeared from behind a tall standing mirror with considerably more bravado.

The second boy said, “Whatsa matter? Scared we’re gonna scare the new guy off?”

A third boy hushed him sharply from where he was huddling underneath the one circular window of the attic, “Shut up, Cory.  You’re gonna piss him off.”

“So?” barked the second boy.

“Keep your voice down, Corey,” Benton snapped suddenly, picking up the shovel in both hands, “Or I’ll beat some respect into you.”

The other two boys sniffled a little, but Corey, gingery-haired with a stubbornly set jaw, wasn’t ready to let go yet, “Ooo, Benton and his big, scary shovel.  That only worked once.  Ain’t gonna work again.”

“Alright then,” Benton said with a deceptive level of calm to his voice.

He set the shovel down and started to walk over, each step calculated and slow.  Both of the other boys disappeared with final whimpers of fear, gone to other parts of the attic.  Corey seemed to realize then that he was alone and the terror started to creep in around his eyes.

“…Matt? Steve…?” his little voice shook and Benton kept coming, “H-hey asshole…stay where you are…”

“Your friends were the smart ones.  It looks like you need a reminder, Corey,” his voice, Corey noticed now, was still calm, but it was the kind of calm a father used before exploding into a full rage. 

He was furious.

Suddenly, Benton was in front of the boy, his eyes gone even paler in his rage.  Suddenly, one of those fine-boned hands wrapped itself up in his hair and he let out a scream as pain radiated down through his scalp.  Corey tried to kick as Benton dragged him out from behind the mirror with more strength than that slim body should have rightfully possessed.  It didn’t help him, the kicking or the squirming.  He could already see that the man was heading for the steamer trunk that Matt had been hiding behind.  He let out a scream.

“Shut up, you little nuisance.  You said you weren’t scared of me.  Are you scared of me now, huh?” Benton growled, reaching down and picking the boy up bodily.

“Please! I don’t wanna go in the trunk! Please! I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna!”

Still holding the boy in the air, Benton gave him a hard shake, quieting him, “I warned you what would happen if you pulled that little stunt with anyone again, didn’t I, Corey?”

“I don’t wanna go back in there!”

“Then you should have listened!” Benton shouted in his face, finally giving his fury a vent before reaching down and popping the clasp on the trunk.

The boy in his grip tried to struggle free afresh, but it didn’t help him.  He looked down and saw a collection of little bones all tightly bundled together in the bottom of the trunk, letting out a moan of horror.  It paralyzed him long enough for Benton to shove him in with them, slamming the lid shut and clicking the lock closed.  The whole trunk shuddered with the force of Corey’s struggles from within, but there was no escaping.  Benton sat down on the lid, giving it a pat before looking out into the darkness of the attic, seeing two little pairs of eyes watching him.

He sneered, “Am I going to have to deal with you two as well or are you going to be good boys?”

“We’ll be good…” Steve whispered.

“Good.  Now get out of here before I make room in the trunk for you, too.”

~~~

Aidan was beginning to think that his trip into town had been ill-advised. 

Ever since he’d driven down the hill (a porter had since brought along his personal vehicle and taken the moving vans), he’d found people’s eyes on him.  At first he’d hoped it had been recognition…people remembering his face from the photos on the back cover of his books.  Then, he’d realized it was probably more likely curiosity over a new face in town.  He’d heard that some places were a little strange about newcomers and, while San Francisco itself wasn’t small enough for that mentality, certain parts of it were and this was one of those forgotten little corners.  He figured the stares would go away after an hour or so.

They persisted.

After picking up some groceries and catching stares the entire time, Aidan began to realize that they weren’t just curious.  There was something else…a new element that he hadn’t been aware of at first.  They were looking at him the same way they’d look at a madman babbling at himself at a bus stop.  They were watching with the same kind of horrified interest as some people watched car wrecks.  There seemed to be a collective knowledge that he just wasn’t a part of…like all of them were watching something terrible happen that only they could see.  It unnerved him.

After he had his groceries tucked away in the car (the refrigerated goods safely in a cooler), he decided that he wanted something cold to drink.  The day had gotten progressively warmer and the stares seemed to have their own heat. 

Aidan ducked into a diner and tried to find a booth at the very back so that he could have some privacy.  When no one seemed to follow him or recognize him, he let himself relax.  The seat was cool against his back and soft.  He put his head in his hands, running thick fingers through his somewhat messy brown hair.  What a day.  He just had to keep telling himself that it would get easier once everything had taken some time to fall into routine.  Benton would relax, everyone in town would relax, his mom would relax and only then would he have time to relax himself.

The writer almost jumped out of his skin when someone slid into the booth across from him.

It was a teenage girl, her hair natural black, but her nails clearly painted that way.  Her hair was covered by a fedora (not one of those horrible trillby hats that had become so popular).  This one looked old and battered and perhaps a little bit too big for her head, probably her grandfather’s or something.  Her big gray eyes were lined in thick eyeliner, but her lips were untouched.  She wore a military jacket a size or two too big for her and her t-shirt had a band on it that Aidan was sure hadn’t been popular since he was her age.

“Excuse me -,” he started, but he cut him off.

Her voice was dropped confidentially, “So it’s true.  Is it true?”

“Is what true?” he said grumpily, feeling that his space was being invaded, “Look, if I’m in your booth or something…”

“Someone actually bought the Last Resort,” he said, her eyes glinting with a too-knowing zeal.

“The what?” He asked, out of his depth again.

She put her elbows down on the table and leaned forward intently, “The Last Resort.  The creepy old ghost house up on the hill.  Jesus, are you nuts? Ew, please don’t tell me you’re one of those thrill-kill freaks.”

Aidan stared at her and he watched as comprehension dawned on her face.

“…Oh shit.  Oh SHIT, you don’t know!”

The writer still had a mind to be annoyed, but he realized this girl knew things about his house…things that Benton either didn’t know or wasn’t willing to tell.  Hell, even if they were full of lies, she might be able to just give him a starting point on his book.

“Whoa, could you slow down a bit, miss?”

“Nona,” she said, “There’s no point in shortening it, but people call me No, anyway.”

“Nona then.  So, you know about my house?” Aidan wheedled, looking up for a waitress.

Nona waved one over for him, “Hell yeah, I know about your house.  I can’t believe you don’t.”

Aidan ordered a milkshake for himself and then, as a second thought, one for Nona as well.  Hell, he had the money and he might as well give her a reason to sit and tell him what she thought she knew.  She looked grateful at the very least.

“Well, my realtor and Caretaker haven’t been very forthcoming with information about the place.  The Caretaker actually seems to think that nothing interesting ever happened there,” Aidan said.

The dark-haired teenager snorted, “Well then they’re both full of shit.  That house is evil, man.  Why do you think it was empty for ten years before you rolled up yesterday?”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened there since no one else seems to want to?” he prompted her, reaching into his messenger bag for a notepad.

“Sure.  Oh man, you’re taking notes? That’s pretty fucked up.”

“I’m a crime author.  Maybe there’ll be something interesting that I can write about.”

“…Still fucked up, but okay.  So, this big gang boss built the house in 1923 for his secret lover, right? It was a way to keep an eye on things and to impress his lover into staying with him.  Well, the guy only lives there for two years before the big boss’s enemies figure out what’s going on and get the balls to make a move.  The crime reports say they broke in one night, tortured the guy’s lover and killed him to make a statement.  That was the beginning of the whole mess,” Nona began like a grand storyteller, secret and knowing.

“Okay, so one bad death.  I had the feeling there were a lot of those around that time,” he smirked a little at her.

Nona shook her head, “It gets worse.  Jesus, are all crime writers as cavalier as you? Anyway, if the guy’s lover had just gotten a decent burial, everything might have turned out okay, but his body disappeared from the morgue a day or two later.”

“His?” Aidan stopped her.

“Yeah.  The guy’s lover was a younger man. Part of the reason it was such a big secret.  Anyway, the crime reports end with the body disappearing from the morgue.  Unsolved gangland mystery, right? Well that’s when the REAL stories start.”

The milkshakes arrived and Nona started tearing into a straw while Aidan scribbled another note, “And what do the REAL stories say, then?”

“They say that the gang boss, unwilling to be separated from his lover, had some of his henchmen steal the body and he dragged him BACK to the place where he died, hid his body in or under the house or something weird.  Like I said, nobody ever actually solved that one.  The stories don’t agree what happened after that.  Some people think he ate his boyfriend, some people think there was some seriously weird necro shit going on,” Nona took a drink of her milkshake.

Aidan gave her a flat look and she shrugged, “Sorry.”

The writer leaned back after having some of his own, “Seems pretty nasty.  You go through hell and even then you don’t get to rest in peace.”

“That’s what happened,” Nona said with an absolutely assured tone, “It’s ugly shit and they say that, because of what happened, there’s a stain on that house that eats every person who goes in there.”

The two drank a bit more of their milkshakes in silence.

Aidan looked up at Nona, “You called my house The Last Resort.”

“Yeah, there are lots of names for that place, but that’s the popular one.”

“Why?”

“Because for a lot of people, it is.”

 The writer's pen stopped on the pad of paper and he looked curiously at Nona.  She just gave him a stern look.

"All I'm gonna tell you for now is that you need to get the hell out of there."

"Can't you tell me more?" Aidan asked, sounding amused now at the young girl and her big, scary ghost stories.

"Tell you what.  I'll give you a day or two to figure out that I'm not just blowing smoke.  If you want, meet me at the park by the shopping center and we'll talk," Nona said as she waved a waitress over to put her milkshake remains into a to-go cup.

"Wouldn't you just like to meet at my house?" he asked her.

"First, I'm 16 and my mom would kill me.  Second, I'm not one of the losers who go to the house for kicks.  I'm safer on the outside, so I'll stay on the outside.  Have a good day and I'll see you at the park if you're ready to hear more, okay?"

With that, Nona stood with the rest of her milkshake in a styrofoam cup and disappeared like a dark raincloud out of the diner.  It left Aidan with more question than he'd started with, but at least he'd had an amusing meeting and now he at least had a starting point for a story.  It was funny how gullible people were, really.  One nasty incident at a house and everyone started jumping at shadows and telling ghost stories.  Ah well, she was young and impressionable he guessed and even if her stories were pretty heavily embellished, they were still interesting.

Maybe he would see her at the park.


	3. The Things We Leave Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Last Resort earns its name and Benton cleans up a few messes.

**THE LAST RESORT  
** CHAPTER THREE – THE THINGS WE LEAVE BEHIND

It was dinner time in the Murphy household and Aidan was still digesting his meeting with Nona and his strange day out in the town.  As before, his mother was seated at the breakfast bar, but she seemed rejuvenated from spending the entire day setting up her art studio.  She was more talkative at least…more like her old self.  It was a breath of fresh air.

“How was your trip into town today, sweetie?” She asked Aidan, “Find any good stories?”

“I found a good grocery store,” he teased, deliberately not telling her what she wanted to know.

She tutted at him and he relented with a grin, “Yeah, I met a girl in town today.  Apparently she’s a real aficionado when it comes to our house.  She gave me quite an earful about it…mostly crap, but still some things I can use.”

“Oh? Was she pretty?” his mother smiled slyly.

“You’re terrible and yeah, in that she was something like 16 and I say it in a fatherly way, you old pervert,” he joked with his mother.

“Chatting with 16 year old girl and you call me the pervert,” luckily, she gave it as good as she got it, “So what did she tell you?”

“That our house has some dark stain on it that eats people alive or something.  Like I said, it was pretty much all crap, but it’s enough to give me some inspiration,” he waved most of it off while he checked on the lasagna in the oven.

“Oh? Are you writing ghost stories now, then?” she chuckled and reached for a glass of wine, “Do you want any of this, dear?”

“No mom, you know I don’t drink,” Aidan waved her off.

“My pent up little boy,” his mother said fondly.

“Hey, would you rather talk about the house or my personal life again?” he rebuffed with no heat to his tone.

His mother held up a finger, “Ah yes, that reminds me.  I think we might have to lay down some mousetraps, dear.  I heard an awful racket up in the attic this morning.”

“Oh, well Benton said he had some work to do up there this morning, so he might have been moving things around,” Aidan tried to reassure his mother.

“That’s probably it then.  You know these old ears aren’t what they used to be and that new studio of mine is so secluded.  It’s lovely.  I feel like I’m in my own world,” she smiled dreamily.

“That’s great, mom.  I can ask Benton to be more quiet in the future if you’d like, by the way,” he offered, topping up her wine glass and settling in to wait for the food to cook.

“Oh, it’s alright, Aidan.  I don’t want to tell a young man how to do his job.  It was quiet after that.  I think he went down to work in the garden for the rest of the day before he left anyway.”

“Okay, well if that’s alright with you then I won’t say anything.”

“My considerate boy,” his mother said fondly.

~~~

After dinner that night when all the dishes were put away and his mom was tucked up in her room to do some reading, Aidan descended to what would become his office.  It was a small room on the first floor near the kitchen so he could hear if anyone passed through, but far enough away from his mother’s studio that she could have some privacy.  It was a nice compromise considering that he still enjoyed using a noisy typewriter to record his work on.  He liked the nostalgia of it and it did actually help when he had to write a period crime novel.  It was easier to slide himself into the time frame.

For now he figured it was as good a time as any to set some things up.  He had to unpack the typewriter and start laying out his desk for starters.  Then maybe he’d take a little bit of time to consolidate the notes he’d taken from today and decide where to go next.  Maybe he’d go to the library tomorrow to see if he could find any old newsreels or digital archives.  If he was lucky, he could start on his new book by the end of the week.

He was just pulling his typewriter out of its box when he heard a crash from downstairs in the cellar.  Or he thought he did.  His head jerked up and he nearly dropped the typewriter in shock.  Another invasion? He set his delicate tool down carefully on the desk and reached for the small knife he’d been using to open boxes.  Was everyone in this fucking city insane?

For a minute, he wondered if it might be Nona being more bold than she claimed she was.

Steeling himself, Aidan made his way to the stairs leading down into the basement.  He had the knife in one hand and the doorknob in the other when he heard scuffling downstairs.

Aidan gritted his teeth for a minute before calling out, “Whoever’s down there, you have one chance to come up and I won’t call the cops.”

No one responded and he started to descend slowly, wincing as his foot creaked and thumped on every step down.

“I’m warning you.  I am armed.  I don’t want to hurt you, so just come out,” he tried again, sincerely hoping his intruder was nothing more than a bold raccoon.

Suddenly, something knocked into his front, scaring him into dropping the knife as it wrapped around him like a limpet.  It was sobbing and howling and he was shouting in surprise as he fought to throw it off.  His heart thundered in his chest, his veins aching as blood was forced through them at a tripping pace.  Finally, he got the thing off of him and damn near threw it across the floor before running for the lightswitch.

As he ran, he heard something shuffling after him and he threw the switch desperately, watching as the lights flickered once…twice…and finally turned on.

He looked down at his attacker and saw that it was just a girl.  Another teenager girl, but not Nona.  She looked absolutely devastated, her make-up smeared from tears and her eyes red.  She looked like she’d been sobbing for hours.  She was dressed in a thick scarf (utter lunacy given the heat) an a track suit, so sweat was mixing in with all the tears and snot.  It was a startling and unpleasant sight.

“Are you here to kill me?” she nearly screamed, “Please do it, please!”

“What the fuck? No! Why the hell are you in my house?” Aidan said, shock and horror fighting for dominion in his system.

“You’re supposed to kill me now! Please!” she said, crawling towards him.

Aidan nearly gagged before grabbing at her, “Why the hell do you think anyone here is going to kill you?”

Her long nails clawed at his arms as she grabbed him, “Because that’s what they said! They said it, they said it! They said that he killed trespassers and I’m too scared to do it to myself! Please!”

“You’re seriously trying to commit suicide by urban legend? Are you insane?”

 Aidan gave her a little shake and debated taking her upstairs to call the police.  On the one hand, he didn’t want her near his mother, but on the other hand he really couldn’t leave her alone down here while he called the authorities.

“Why do you even want to die?” he asked her, trying to calm her down, “You’re only, what, 15?”

“He left me for that slut and I can’t live without him, I can’t! If I die, that’ll show him and he’ll regret what he did, he’ll regret it, he’ll regret it!” she blubbered.

Aidan found himself lamenting the fragile mental and hormonal states of teenagers before he heard steps up on the landing.  Benton’s voice drifted down.

“Problems, Aidan?”

“Benton? How long have you been here?” Aidan asked, still grappling with the crying girl.

“I just arrived.  I realized I left something in the attic and I drove back to retrieve it.  I’m glad I did.  It seems like you need some help,” the young man said, descending and sounding as unruffled as ever.

“Yeah, this girl just broke in and she’s suicidal.  Can you watch her while I call the cops?” Aidan said, grateful.

“I don’t think your mother should have to deal with police tonight.  I’ll escort her in my car, sir, and call the window repairmen in the morning.”

“Oh…” Aidan thought about it and realized he really didn’t want police sirens disturbing his mom, especially if she’d just gotten to sleep, “Yeah, sure.  Thanks.  She just started babbling about some urban legend about a man in this house killing intruders and…jesus, this is too much for me.”

Benton’s icy gaze turned down to the young woman who was utterly insensate with tears at this point, “Did she really? You do get the weird ones out here on the coast.”

He began to walk down to get her and Aidan said, “Benton.  Tomorrow, you need to tell me what’s really going on with this house.  The boys breaking in yesterday, stories I heard in town, her…”

Aidan paused to look Benton in the eyes to make his point.

“I need to know what to expect.”

The look in those chilly eyes shook something down in Aidan’s bones, but Benton’s voice was as even as ever when he acquiesced, “Of course.  If that’s what you want.”

With that, he gathered up the crying girl and carried her upstairs.

Aidan heard the front door open and close, the crying fading away.

He was left alone with the debris of the shattered window and a very uneasy feeling.

~~~

The night air was heavy and ripe with the womanly heat of summer and the scent of flowers baking in the leftover warmth from the long-gone sun as Benton carried the girl out of the house and across the lawn.  She was starting to pull herself together, which was nice because she’d already gotten some snot on his waistcoat and he didn’t particularly want to deal with more.  What was with these miserable creatures always seeking an untimely end on this property? Did they have no respect? Was there no sense of at least trying to go out with some dignity? Especially over something so stupid as a boy.

No one man was worth dying for and if the woman…the girl…in his arms was frail enough to think otherwise, then what other horrors would life hold for her?

Children these days were made of such weak stuff.

Coming around, the girl looked up for the first time, “Um…sorry…can you not take me to the police? I just…sorry.”

“Sure,” Benton said, still walking, eyes ahead.

“Or, don’t tell my mom…cause…she’d freak…I just…” she mumbled, already regretting her stupid cowardice.

Over a BOY.

“Sure,” Benton said again, not stopping.

The girl finally looked around, realizing they were almost to the gate, “Where’s your car?”

“Don’t have one,” Benton said, continuing on as a cloud crept across the pregnant moon.

“O-okay…um…yeah, that’s okay.  Just put me down outside the…the gate and I’ll walk home…okay?” she stammered, still blissfully unaware.

The Caretaker was silent this time as he finished the walk to the gate, unlocking it.  The girl started to walk forward to leave, but suddenly Benton was on her.  He tackled her, pinning her to the ground right before she would have been off the property.  She started to scream, but he reached with one hand to cover her mouth, pinning her into the grass until she very nearly couldn’t breathe.  He felt her body shaking with terror as he reached into his pocket and produced a shining straight-razor…an antiquity that hadn’t been used to shave a cheek in quite some time.

She tried to scream around his hand and he hissed in her ear, “You broke into my HOUSE.  You wanted to die that badly? Weak, stupid girl.  If you can’t handle losing a boy, then take what I’m about to do as a kindness.”

He lowered the straight razor to her throat, felt her stiffen in horror first, then start her struggles anew. 

Benton muttered down to her, “Don’t worry.  You won’t die on the property.  I have enough little monsters to keep in line without having to listen to your whimpering.”

Her screaming was almost loud enough to be heard as he moved his head to tug at her scarf.  It only flared his already incandescent rage.  Benton slammed her forehead down against a rock nestled down in the grass and it was enough to stun her without killing her.  He was serious.  He had enough ghoulies to babysit as it was and there was no way he was making a fresh one to marshal.  With a little more savagery than was absolutely necessary, he shoved the blade into her throat and dragged it across, feeling her blood spray down into the grass.  Her body convulsed.

Wanting to finish it quickly, Benton stood and dragged her twitching form up, giving it a strong enough shove that she, in a panic, started to run.  He rolled his eyes at the attempt, but was grateful for it all the same.  The way she was losing blood, she’d make it as far as the city limits before collapsing…probably get hit by a car and just blame the death on that.  Besides, with the thick scarf she’d worn out (likely so she wouldn’t be recognized on her way out of the city, stupid girl), it was highly unlikely that any of her blood would actually get to the ground to leave the trail. 

Little moron had been too clever and stupid by half.

Nobody fucked with his house.

He was the Caretaker.

~~~

The next day, Aidan just sat in front of his typewriter without actually writing a thing.  He had so much in his head, but he was waiting for Benton.  He couldn’t sort out everything.  After only two days he’d dealt with two invasions, one of which was a psychotic teenage girl, and the unnerving interest of the locals.  On top of that, he knew that he was dealing with a bit of dissembling from his young Caretaker.  If the entire city was in on something and only Benton was claiming there was nothing going on, then the boy either wasn’t as good at his job as he claimed or he was hiding something.  Aidan didn’t intend to stay in the dark.  He had to know what was coming or he’d be facing more nights like the last one.

He started when he heard the knock on the door, but breathed out when it was only Benton’s head that appeared around the door.  He waved him in.

The slim man with the cold eyes watched Aidan as the writer said, “We need to talk.”

“So you said last night,” Benton reminded him.

“Fine.  So, are you just bad at your job or is there something you’re not telling me? Because, frankly, the whole town seems to have knowledge about this house that either you can’t or won’t tell me,” Aidan glared.

Benton sighed and retired to a chair, running his hands over his hair, “…Fine.  I had hoped the crazies would leave this place alone and I wouldn’t have to tell you any of this…for the sake of your mother’s peace, you understand…but I can understand your concern.”

Aidan watched the young man as he tried to figure out where to begin, “Just tell me why everyone seems to think I’m going to kill them for coming on the property without permission.  This isn’t Texas.”

“It’s not you they’re afraid of, Aidan,” Benton amended.

“Then who?”

“History.”

Aidan gave his Caretaker a flat look, “I beg your pardon?”

“I told you this house had a history, didn’t I? Well, when a place has a history like this one, stories start…rumours…legends.  There isn’t anything to be frightened of, of course, but the history,” Benton said, leaning back and looking tired.

“I don’t understand,” the other man replied.

“It’s simple,” Benton said, “One bad thing happens in a place…and it gets a reputation.  Other people, sheep, really, feed that reputation with their own stupidity and the history builds…gets worse.  One murder begets another which begets another.”

“So you’re saying that more murders have happened in this house? Aside from the first one?” Aidan asked.

“Well the first one was ghastly enough.  Some people are just competitive, I guess.  Either that or they’re just a little too interested in the darkness and aspire to the evil others leave behind,” Benton replied.

“I heard that the murder of the first owner was pretty ugly…what…what exactly happened?”

“Well, the first OWNER died in a shoot-out on the docks quite a few miles away.  The first RESIDENT died horribly.  I trust that he’s the one you want to know about?” The Caretaker asked, watching as Aidan reached for his notepad again, “Really?”

“I’m a crime writer,” Aidan said as if that explained everything.

Benton pointed on slim finger at him, “You’d best be careful.  That little lust for darkness…you never know what it will breed.”

The writer just stared at him and Benton waved him off before sighing again, “Fine.  So, the very first murder of what the locals call The Last Resort…”

The Caretaker closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts for a moment before recounting the tale.

“The year was 1925 and by then this house had only stood for two years.  It had only one resident in those days as you know…the lover of the crime boss we discussed.  He was kept locked up there, a kept boy, and likely would have remained relatively safe if his ‘owner’ weren’t so bad at keeping secrets.  Soon the entire underbelly of this fucking city knew that he had a weak spot…a big one that lived in the most conspicuous house in town.  It was child’s play from there to stage a raid so big that any security on the house was lured away…leaving its sole occupant unprotected.”

Benton took a deep breath and looked for the rest of the details of the story.

He raised an eyebrow, “You sure you want to hear this? It gets nasty from here.”

Aidan waved him on and nodded.

“Well then, the boy didn’t go down easy.  He stood behind the door armed with a fireplace poker and managed to bash one’s brains in before the rest got him.  They dragged him into the living room and raped him until he bled.  It’s funny isn’t it? Nobody’s a faggot ‘til they are one.  Anyway, they tortured him after that…cut their names into his back with knives they’d heated in the fireplace.  They cut his…manhood…off and carved ‘whore’ into his stomach before they ended it by cutting his throat and leaving him to bleed on the floor.  It wasn’t quick.  It took hours from the break-in to the murder and then, when it was over, they left him there for the cops to find.”

“Wait,” Aidan stopped him, “They called the police after all that?”

“Mm, it was ingenious really.  The police find a slaughtered body and make it incredibly public.  It ruins the gangster’s reputation…they don’t even need to arrest him after that since nobody will work with him…and breaks him utterly.  Of course, after that the man’s lover went so mad that he stole the boy’s body from the morgue and dragged it back here, so the stories say.”

“Yeah, I heard that.  They never found it, right?” Aidan prompted.

“No, never did.  Probably never will, either,” Benton said, rubbing at his sinuses, “What else do you want to know?”

“Well what about all these stories about the house being evil?”

“Ah.  Well, the murder was so gruesome that people couldn’t imagine the spirit of the boy resting in peace.  Every misfortune that visited the house after that, no matter what caused it, was the ghost’s fault.  As for the rest of the ‘wickedness’ that surrounds this house, it’s like I told you before…just the history we leave behind,” Benton said in closing.

“So, Urban legends…like that girl last night,” Aidan said, making another note.

“Precisely.  Now, I need to go finish some work in the garden,” the Caretaker said, standing.

“Yeah, sure.  Thanks for this, Benton,” the writer dismissed him.

Benton slipped out of the room, silent as a shadow.

~~~

“Cute story, Bernie, but you left some important things out,” a voice hissed from the shadows by the back door as Benton headed towards the garden.

He paused, one hand on the doorframe, and said, “And what did I forget to tell him about then, Marco?”

“About what you did to that girl last night…or those three boys in the attic.  How about what you did to me, handsome? Also, love the name change.  Bernard was to stuffy for a little wild thing like you.”

Benton turned to face the man lurking behind him, taking note of the hair half burned away and the completely ruined face.  Ash flaked from his crumbling features and his scalp looked like someone had dragged their hand across a still pool of water, leaving ripples behind on the smooth surface.  The skin on his neck and shoulders was pocked and peeling and every breath he took sounded like a struggling wheeze.

“Holding a guy’s head in a fireplace…not a very nice way to behave,” Marco smarmed at him, “All your moralizing about the things we leave behind…and look at you, leaving us in your wake like breadcrumbs, precious.”

“Go away, Marco.  I’m busy,” Benton said, his voice low.

“You going to sweep us under the rug for the rest of your miserable existence? What are you going to do when you run out of room?” Marco sidled up to him, reaching out to touch him.

“Do not play the big man with ME, Marco Santi or I will REMIND you why you have every reason to fear me!” Benton roared, pupils gone small with the force of his wrath.

The bigger man stumbled back as if shoved, the bluster sucked right out of him as he faded back into the darkness from whence he had come.

From elsewhere in the house, Aidan called, “Benton? I hear yelling.  Is everything okay?”

Taking a breath to calm himself and smoothing his hair back, getting himself neat as a pin once more, Benton opened the door.

“Yes, Aidan.  Don’t worry.”

He cast his cold gaze over the room once more.

“Just some vermin I had to take care of.”


	4. All of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nona explains more of the house's dark history and Benton's secrets start to close in.

**THE LAST RESORT  
** CHAPTER FOUR – ALL OF US

After those tumultuous first two days, Aidan was happy to note that things had settled down quite a bit.  People seemed to have gotten the message that his house was off-limits…fully occupied and no longer a local ‘haunt’, as it were.  He had been able to start consolidating his notes in peace, his mother happily working on a new painting and Benton buzzing around, keeping the house in working order.  He’d even really started to like Benton now that he’d gotten him to stop keeping secrets.  The guy had a way of just being around when he was needed or wanted, but being accommodatingly quiet when he wasn’t.  Now that things were more or less figured out, Aidan could admit that he could see himself living here for quite some time.

Still, he was spending the day out of the house. 

He’d ventured down to the park shortly after breakfast once he’d made sure Benton would be around to watch over his mother in case she needed anything.  Today was the day Nona had said they should meet if he had more questions and, while Aidan knew about the house now, he always needed more inspiration.  If Nona was happy to give it then he was happy to receive it.  As it was he was just sitting on a bench and looking over one of the paths, watching as a few mothers walked by with strollers towards the playground just on the other side of the park.  His trusty notepad was situated across his knee and he was enjoying not being stared at like last time.

He didn’t have too long to sit and ponder before Nona plunked down onto the bench next to him as easily and unannounced as she had done in the diner.  Today she was wearing a tatty looking skirt with a flannel shirt and a long cardigan.  She stretched her waif-thin legs out in front of her, feet completely engulfed in a pair of clunky combat boots.  She had a cigarette tucked between her un-painted lips and she hadn’t acknowledged him yet. 

Aidan cleared his throat, “You know, legal smoking age is 18.”

She held up her right hand, the pointer finger and thumb formed into a circle.

“What’s that mean?” Aidan asked her, pushing his glasses up.

“That’s the number of fucks I give.”

“Good to know,” the writer said with a short laugh, letting the subject drop.

Nona chose the next one, “So, did you hear about it?”

“About what?” he asked, humouring her as she took a long puff of her cigarette.

“Marcy Hollingsworth?”

When Aidan could only give her a vague look, Nona ploughed on, “Jesus, read a newspaper or something.  Marcy Hollingsworth turned up dead in town the other day.  Somebody ditched her body in the park.”

“What happened to her?”

Nona traced a finger across her neck from one ear to the other, “Somebody’d practically given her a Colombian necktie.  Police said she wasn’t killed her in the park, but her body had been dumped.  They investigated her boyfriend, but no leads yet.  It’s grim.”

“Sounds like it.  Any idea why they did it?” Aidan tapped his pen against his notebook.

“No clue.  Her mom didn’t even know she’d left the house.  Looks like it’s just going to be another one of those west coast mysteries, huh?” Nona replied nonchalantly.

“You don’t seem all that bothered.  What if it’s a serial killer?” Aidan asked teasingly.

“Nah.  Doesn’t follow anyone’s MO and besides, Marcy was crazy unhinged, man…and she had a weird fixation on your house,” the teenager said with a raised eyebrow, finally turning to look at him.

For a long moment, the writer didn’t get what she was driving at.

Then the penny dropped.

“You think it has something to do with my house.”

“I told you, man, that place is evil.”

“Yes, but what makes you think it ‘got’ Miss Hollingsworth?” Aidan asked curiously.

“After her boyfriend dumped her for Susan Carmichael, she asked me about it.  I told her what I knew and then sent her on her merry way.  People call ME the weird one, but they have no fucking idea…” Nona shook her head and reached to stub her cigarette on the sole of her boot.

The author froze, staring ahead as he remembered the girl in his basement, “Do you have a picture of her?”

“Do I look like a yearbook?” Nona scoffed, flicking a strand of her dark hair behind her shoulder, “Seriously, just check a newspaper.”

“Right…” he said, making a note on his pad.

“Anyway, back to your house.  After all, that’s what you came here to talk to me about, right?” Nona reached into a messenger bag she’d thumped down when she’d sat and drew out a small black book.

“What’s that?” Aidan peered at it.

“I’ve been watching the Last Resort for years…collecting old news clippings and shit.  Figured we’d have a chat about your house and I’d bring what I’ve got.  You game?” She asked, waving the book a bit.

Aidan nodded.

“Okay, so, we already talked about the first murder…the one that kicked it all off.  Well, after that one, your little house on haunted hill stayed empty until after the second World War ended.  See, the gangster still owned the house for awhile after the first murder, then after he died, nobody wanted to live there…then the economy went bust and nobody could live there.  Well, then there was this big golden age in like…1952.  By then people had kinda stopped talking about the murders and the world sorta moved on,” the girl flipped to something in her book.

“So who moved in?”

“Some up-and-coming movie mogul and his wife.  Both young.  Sampson and Doris Rigby.  He was producing films out of RKO and she was a homemaker…pretty run-of-the-mill for a 50’s power couple.”

The writer scribbled that down before looking back up, “Okay…and what ‘happened’ to them?”

“The news says it was drugs and money that caused it…lots of boozing and fighting.  It was a Murder-Suicide.  Sampson shot his wife and then himself in the foyer.  It was pretty grim.  Apparently their maid found them when she came in one morning and called the cops.  There were signs of a struggle, so the police figured that it was a domestic dispute gone wrong,” Nona’s gray eyes flicked up to Aidan.

“But that’s not what you think happened,” the man finished for her.

“Got it in one.”

“So then what really happened?” Aidan was still grappling with the ball of lead in his stomach, but he was too curious to let it go.

“Interviews from people who knew the Rigbys say that Doris was getting bitchy.  She drank too much and did drugs and wanted an elaborate lifestyle that her husband couldn’t afford.  One day she decided that the house wasn’t just right and started making plans to renovate and change it.  I think she made the house mad,” the teenager was watching him, waiting for his reaction.

“Why would the house be mad?”

“Dude, after the first murder, I think something definitely got left behind.  I mean, once that guy’s body got dragged back to the house, it became a tomb.  Would you really want someone messing around with your grave?”

Aidan was quiet an Nona nodded, “Thought not.”

“Did anyone come after the Rigbys?” the writer asked, making notes still, but more about things to ask Benton rather than things to put in a book.

“Not for a long time.  That place was empty for about 30 years after that.  Once the Rigbys died, stories about the original murder got stirred up and people started talking again.  Then the market crashed in the 70’s and nobody could afford a mansion anymore.  The city just left it alone, but a few vandals snuck in over the years,” she shrugged one shoulder.

“Let me guess, they died horribly?” Aidan snarked.

The teenager twisted her lips in thought and flipped through her book, “Dunno.  Just, the house started to degrade and there were a few weird disappearances over the years.  There wasn’t even enough left to write a news article, so I’ve just got a lot of question marks in here.”

“However,” she amended, “The house did get a new owner in 1983.  Single guy this time, kind of a party boy.  He didn’t really have a job, just rich parents and a big inheritance, so the mansion was kind of his ‘swinging bachelor pad’.”

“Bet he wasn’t really respectful of the house,” the older man replied, watching Nona.

She nodded, “Yeah, but there’s more.  Apparently some of his friends said he got a new boyfriend.  They only ever saw the guy in the house and then they never saw him again after Marco Santi was found with his head in the fireplace.  The police looked for him, but they never found the boyfriend.  They still hold him as the official suspect in the case, but I don’t think they’ll ever find him.”

“You think it was a ghost, don’t you?” Aidan said.

“Yeah.”

“Are there any pictures of this mysterious boyfriend, then?” He reached for her notebook and she handed it over.

“No.  It was the 80’s so nothing was digital.  Any photos that had him in it are probably up in smoke.  There IS a picture of the first murder victim, though.  I think that if it was a ghost that got Marco Santi, it was probably him.  No name for the first guy, though.  A lot about him got swept under the rug,” Nona pointed to the pages that had the information Aidan was looking for.

Aidan winced as he looked over crime scene photos, “Jesus.  There’s not a whole lot left of the guy.”

Of course, then again, there really wouldn’t be, would there? After what Benton had said happened to him, it wasn’t surprising if, especially considering the age of the cameras they’d been using, getting facial recognition was nearly impossible.  He looked over visions of police officers and Crime Scene Investigators and detectives kneeling over the body, blood and carnage everywhere.  Honestly, the body cut a pretty pitiful figure, slender and fragile and vulnerable where it was laid out on the rug.  He had seen worse photos in his time as a crime author, but there was something about this one. 

Aidan sighed and flipped a few pages, but found nothing else, “So are those all the murders?”

“All the documented ones,” Nona said, sliding a fresh cigarette out of the box from her messenger bag, “I still have to add Marcy.”

The writer turned the notebook over in his hands and then asked, “Hey, can I borrow this for a few days? Scribble some notes out of it?”

“Yeah, sure, go for it.  Figured you’d need it anyway,” she shrugged again.

“Thanks, I just want to run some of this past my Caretaker and see if he can’t add to it.  He’s pretty knowledgeable about the old place.  I’ll bring your book back in say…three days?” Aidan stood, holding the book up.

“Sure.  Just don’t, y’know, die before then.  It’d be a pain if I had to put that book all back together again,” she said, still as cavalier as ever.

“You are a strange little girl, miss Nona.  Thanks all the same.”

He started to walk off and she just waved, taking another drag off of that sweet-smelling cigarette.

~~~

Benton looked up from his gardening when a newspaper dropped on the petunia bed in front of him.  Aidan was standing there, looking like he was going to be sick, so the younger man picked the paper up with a sigh.  A page had been earmarked, so he flipped to it and found the face of the young girl he had savaged on the front lawn staring back at him. 

Ah.

So that was it, was it? He looked up at Aidan, his face the picture of confusion, “Isn’t this that girl from the other night?”

“Yes.  Yes it is, Benton.  Why is the news saying she was found in a damn bush with her throat cut?” the brunette was looking at his Caretaker with wide brown eyes full of dismay.

“Probably because someone cut her throat,” Benton said, standing and wiping his hands off.

“I thought you said you were taking her to the hospital…or at least to the police station,” there was an accusing note to the bigger man’s tone.

Benton held up his slim hands, “She asked me not to and asked me not to tell her parents.  She had herself under control by the time I got her outside.  She seemed to have come to her senses.  I walked her to the gate and then she asked to be allowed to walk home under her own power, so I let her go.  I figured she’d learned enough of a lesson for the night.”

Suddenly, Aidan was right up in his face, “You let a mentally disturbed teenage girl walk home alone after dark? That might as well be criminal negligence, Benton! How could you be so thoughtless?!”

“I gave her what she wanted, Aidan.  Now, if you would kindly stop yelling at me,” his icy eyes had taken on a threatening expression as he regarded the bigger man.

“I am not backing down on this, Benton! How can you be so calm about this?” Aidan continued to shout.

Snapping, Benton’s voice raised as well, “Because I realize that the world is an ugly place and terrible things happen no matter what we do.  It’s something you’d do well to learn, Mr. Murphy.”

“Maybe it would be a little less ugly if people like you would bother to try and help others, you little psychopath!” The writer blustered.

“Are you done yet?” the slender Caretaker asked, watching Aidan with a silent menace. 

He was angry, he was just being very good at not showing it.  Still, Aidan could feel it growing in the air.  It silenced him and he just stared at the smaller man.

Once he was sure he had Aidan’s undivided attention, Benton spoke, “I will not be judged for making a decision for the good of the house.  You wanted peace and quiet, she seemed like she wanted to forget the whole incident and go home anonymously.  I made the choice that would let that happen.  You really think you’d get any peace and quiet if the police heard that a girl had come here to kill herself? Every freak in the next fifty miles would be lining up at your gate.  It isn’t my fault that someone else made a different decision.”

“So…you made that call for the house, huh?” Aidan said after a long stretch of silence.

“Yes,” Benton replied firmly.

“Is that the same reason you didn’t tell me about the other three confirmed murders that took place here? Why you didn’t tell me about Sampson Rigby? Or Doris Rigby? What about Marco Santi?” Aidan was frowning.

“No, I hid those from you for YOUR safety.  Your fascination with murder and ugliness will be your undoing.  I told you about the worst this house had to offer.  I didn’t figure you needed any more,” Benton snorted, “Besides, why am I the only one getting yelled at about this? It’s not like the realtor told you jack shit either.”

“Nor did the realtor directly hide information from me either, Benton.”

The Caretaker folded his arms and pinned Aidan with one of those uncanny, eerie stares of his, “Sometimes it’s best to start over with a clean slate, Mr. Murphy.  Not everyone gets that chance.”

He picked up his gardening tools and walked around Aidan to get to the back door.

“I recommend you meditate on that…or the dark deeds of this house will never die.”

The door swung closed behind him, leaving Aidan alone with his thoughts yet again.

~~~

That night, Benton sat down in the basement, walking a playing card over his knuckles while he stared blankly at the far wall, lost in thought.  He didn’t even twitch when he heard the click of kitten heels on the concrete of the floor behind him.  He only closed his eyes with a half-annoyed sigh when a woman’s slender hands rubbed down over his shoulders, enfolding him in a lover’s embrace.

“I like the new man, darling.  He’s very handsome.  Will you let me play with him once he joins us? Will you? Not the old woman of course.  Make sure you throw her outside the gates like you did the girl,” a nasally Princess voice said from over his shoulder.

“Doris…”

“Well YOU never play with me and God knows Sampson is just an utter failure as a man.  I wouldn’t let him touch me if you paid me.  You know, if you’d let me play with you, I could turn you into a real man, too.  A faggot is just a boy who’s never had a real woman,” the voice huffed and the hands drew away.

“Enough or you’ll make me angry, Doris.  Nothing is going to happen to Mr. Murphy,” Benton said, watching as a woman stepped in front of him.

She wasn’t a skinny thing, really, but that wasn’t to say she was ugly.  Doris was a reubanesque beauty, all curves underneath the pencil skirt and lady’s sweater she wore.  She was a vision in pale pinks and creams, her blonde curls still perfectly coiffed despite the bullet hole that sat like a little mole on the left side of her forehead.  Even in death, Doris oozed sex appeal just the same as she had in life before her husband’s ill-timed bullet made her a permanent resident of the Last Resort.  Her lips were pulled into an unpleasant little frown.

“What makes him so special? I know it’s not because you’re sweet on him.  I know you were doing filthy, ungodly things with Marco and he still ended up trapped in this house same as me,” she folded her arms stubbornly over her chest.

“You and Marco both deserved what you got.  So far, Mr. Murphy has remained in the slim margin of good grace, so he’s safe,” Benton said, standing and dusting off his trousers.

Doris tsked, “Ah, but we all know how very easy it is to fall out of your graces, don’t we, Benton?”

The Caretaker looked around as Marco slid out to lean against the wall near where the window had been broken in a few days ago.  On the other side of the room, Sampson slinked out of wherever he’d been tucked with his tail between his legs.  He became aware of the three boys as they stepped out of the darkness behind him, Doris leading the charge from in front of him. 

Benton felt every pair of eyes on him as Doris purred.

“All of us.”

 Marco slid up behind Benton and put a hand around his throat, “You know how easy it is to push you over the edge, pretty boy.  I give the new guy a week before you shred him and the old lady.”

“Nothing is going to happen to Aidan Murphy,” the Caretaker snarled.

“You can’t help it.  You’re an animal.  It’ll happen and we’ll have new toys soon,” Doris cooed.

Marco added, “One way or the other.”

Overwhelmed, the slender young man put his hands up to his ears and shouted as loud as he could, “Go away all off you before I lock you back in the darkness and throw away the fucking key! GO AWAY!”

Just like that, the basement was empty again and only Benton remained.

The others were up to something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank all the people who have read this far! We're well on our way here. The next installment will be an interlude where you'll learn a little bit more about the house's residents that go bump in the night. I hope you enjoy!


	5. Final Hours - Interlude One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lives and deaths of some of the house's previous owners.

**THE LAST RESORT  
** CHAPTER FIVE – FINAL HOURS

_The Rigbys (1954)_

“Doris, darling, you know we have to ask the Caretaker before we make any major renovations to the house,” Sampson tried to argue reasonably, taking a sip from his tumbler of scotch.

The blonde woman waved a perfectly-manicured hand and huffed, “He’s just a boy, Sampson.  You should be able to tell him how it is.  It’s our house after all.  He’s just…the help.”

Sampson sighed and ran a hand over his blonde hair, looking up at his wife, “Baby, we promised him we’d keep him informed.”

“So inform him that we’re taking down the front foyer and putting in a bigger one.  Honestly, you’re such a doormat,” she replied, sashaying around the house while popping in a pair of pearl earrings.

“Remind me again why we need a bigger foyer,” the blonde man sighed, but didn’t say no.

“The Hughes just updated their foyer and it’s absolutely divine.  You know it won’t be long until the Ramsays do the same and I swear to you I will NOT be beaten out by Delilah…the little tramp,” his wife came to stand in front of him during her tirade, kitten heels clacking.

“This house is a classic, darling,” he tried to reason with her.

Sampson looked up in time to catch the spark of annoyance jumping across his wife’s sapphire eyes and he wilted inside.  She was going to cause a scene just like she always did when she wanted something and he tried to put up a fight.  It was inevitable and he only wondered what she was going to get up to this time.  Either way he was powerless to stop her…Doris Rigby was a force of nature when she was crossed and in the end Sampson knew he’d acquiesce just to keep the peace.

He didn’t say anything for the moment, though.  Doris would be even MORE furious if he robbed her of her theatrics.

The click of her heels sounded like gunshots as she stalked over to a little silver bell she kept on the mantle.  She seized it and gave it a sharp shake, the harsh sound filling up the room.  It was the death knell of Sam’s quiet evening.

“Benedict! Benedict, come in here right now!” She said shrilly.

Sampson put his face in his hand and sighed against his palm when their Caretaker appeared in the doorway to the living room.  His big blue eyes were calm, but the older man could already sense a storm brewing there.  Very little got by Benedict Masters and it was downright spooky sometimes how very well-informed the small man was.  His face was a neutral mask as he regarded both Doris and Sampson.

When he spoke, his voice was the absolute model of restraint, “Yes, ma’am?”

“I want you to call a contractor tomorrow so we can start discussing ripping out the front foyer for an updated model,” his wife said bluntly.

Unable to be more than just a horrified spectator, Sam watched as a bit of ice crept into Ben’s eyes.  He didn’t give anything away and it was so imperceptible that he doubted Doris had even seen it, but her husband could feel it.  It was like the pressure in the room shifted subtly, sending his stomach roiling.

“Ma’am, the front foyer is perfectly serviceable,” Ben said with absolute cool.

If Benedict was ice, then Doris was definitely playing the role of fire.  Her shoulders tensed like she’d been slapped.

“Did you just argue with me, Benedict?” she said, outrage starting to colour her tone.

“I only told you that the foyer is serviceable.  It is in no need of repair or ‘upgrading’,” the Caretaker told her flatly.

Doris’s eyes narrowed and she decided it was time to pull her husband into it, “Well, Mr. Rigby and I think the house would look much nicer with a new foyer…and that tacky little garden out back should probably go as well.”

There it was. 

Doris had moved on to being vindictive.  She knew very well how much time Mr. Masters spent caring for that garden and if she couldn’t have what she wanted, she’d punish the person who was refusing to give it to her.  Even in the end when she got that new installment on the house she wanted, Benedict would still pay for his perceived insolence.  She would see to it.

Sampson tried to intervene, “Now Doris…”

He found his wife’s thunderous blue eyes turned on him and he realized with crushing dread that a tantrum was upon them.  He withered inside, realizing that all was lost.

He rolled over and by God he hated himself for it.

“…I’m sorry Benedict.  You have to admit, though…a new foyer would be nice…”

He was sure he’d never forget the inhumanly blank look that settled on the Caretaker’s face before he walked out.

~~~

Doris was sitting in front of her vanity mirror getting ready for bed, her hair already tumbling loose.  She plucked her earrings out and tucked them away in their tiny case.  She was humming tunelessly while she preened even though she was going to bed and no one but her husband would see her.  From the reflection in the mirror, Sampson watched her, still remembering that horribly dead look he’d seen on their Caretaker’s face that afternoon.  It sent a chill down his spine.

“You’re not really going to rip up his garden, are you?”

His wife’s hands stopped, the question completely unexpected.  To be honest, she’d probably forgotten about the threat for the time being.  She turned on her vanity stool to regard Sampson.

“His garden, Sampson? HIS garden? You know, last I remember, you were the one who signed the deed to this house.  That makes it yours and I also seem to remember that, as a home is a wife’s responsibility and joy, that makes it mine.  My garden.  It’s my garden and I don’t like it,” Doris said strongly.

“Ben works very hard to make the garden nice, honey,” her husband tried to rally once again.

“Yes and when we rip up the garden and put in a car port, he’ll work hard waxing the Bentley.  Honestly, Sampson, you’re so sentimental about the help.  Should I be expecting this sort of tenderness towards Hettie next?” 

The blonde woman walked over and sat down on the bed, stretching out to go to sleep,” Now, enough nonsense for today, Sampson.  Go to sleep.”

There was a creak downstairs that sounded like footsteps.

Sampson was immediately on alert.  Benedict and Hettie had already gone home for the day, so there shouldn’t have been anyone there.  He sat up like a shot, listening out nervously for any other sounds.  There was another footstep and he nearly jumped out of his skin.  Nobody had ever accused Sampson of being particularly brave and now it looked like there was an intruder in the house…someone who had come an awful long way for a simple home invasion.  It wasn’t like there weren’t other houses closer and more accessible down in the valley beneath the hill.

He jumped when, not sensing the danger of the situation, Doris started nattering away again, “What on EARTH is wrong with you?”

“Someone’s in the house,” he told her quietly, reaching for the gun he kept in the bedside table.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she blustered back, but with considerably less force than usual.

More footsteps.  A chill shot straight down Sampson’s spine when he realized with growing horror that they were headed straight for the stairs that led to the bedroom.  Someone wasn’t just in the house, someone was heading straight for them.  He could practically feel his heart up in his throat.  His skin had gone cold and there were no words for how hard it was to steel his nerve and slide out of bed with the weight of the gun in his hand.  He had to defend his home and his wife.  It was his duty.

Sampson could hear Doris behind him trying not to whimper as he pushed the door open to greet the invader head-on.

The second he did, however, the footsteps stopped and he found himself staring at an empty corridor leading down to an empty staircase.  His blood ran ice cold.

“Doris? You stay here.  I’m going downstairs,” Sampson whispered.

“Be careful…” she whinged back.

Nodding, the man of the house made his way downstairs, stopping every few seconds to cock an ear.  Where had the intruder gone? He was sure he would have heard if whoever-it-was had made a sudden dash for the front door…and there was no way they’d gotten down the stairs so quickly again.  Maybe they’d jumped over the banister.  The darkness pressed in all around him so heavily he could feel it on his skin.

The minute his foot touched the landing at the bottom of the stairs, a ferocious knocking started on the front door.  It sounded like someone was hammering away with both fists, threatening to knock the thing inwards rather than politely asking for entrance.  It started up so suddenly that Sampson almost fancied it a gunshot, a white-hot streak of panic running rampant through his heart for an agonizing second before he realized it was the door. 

The police, maybe?

He ran for the door to tear it open, only for the knocking to stop just as suddenly as it had began when his hand touched the knob.

The man of the house was so full of terror and cold that he doubted in his heart of hearts that he would ever know warmth again.  Someone was going very out of their way to screw around with him…going to great pains and doing it in ways that just didn’t make sense.  Something twigged in the back of his primal brain…the very same instincts that had first taught mankind to fear the dark.  It was an insane, illogical little spark of terror…a realization that maybe, just maybe something else was at work here. 

All of these thoughts occurred in split-second flashes; in bright, burning, incandescent lances of instinctual ‘knowing’.

Suddenly, there was a loud creak behind him.

Sampson turned on his heel, gun raised in time to see a pair of unearthly blue eyes boring straight down into his soul.  He let out a mad cry and fired the gun in his hand…

…only to see his wife crumple to the ground near the foot of the staircase.  Dead.  A perfect little round hole bore through her brow, blood spreading out behind her blonde curls like a halo.  She must have crept down on her quiet little feet to see what was going on and he…he hadn’t heard her.  He hadn’t realized and now he’d killed her.

In horror, the man started screaming, madness bearing down on his brain like a freight train.  He almost didn’t register when violent hands seized him and a familiar voice spoke harshly against his ear.

“I liked you, Sam.  I did.  I didn’t want to hurt you, but you were going to let her do terrible things to this house…you don’t have a SPINE, Sam.”

“Benedict?” Sam howled in something between rage and terror as he felt his gun hand being forced up towards his mouth.

He didn’t have the strength to struggle against it.

The muzzle forced itself past his lips.

Sampson’s world turned to pain and then, with what he only now wished had been finality, darkness.

~~~

_Marco Santi (1985)_

The music boomed out over the loudspeakers in the living room that had been mounted on either side of a massive, makeshift DJ booth by the stained glass windows.  The lights were low and it was impossible to see anything clearly through multi-coloured lasers and writhing bodies.  It was another infamous Santi party, rife with flailing Club Kids out of their minds on anything from prescription meds to Crystal Meth to Ecstasy.  There was no telling what some of them had in their systems, crammed together as they were.  The very air itself was sweaty, stinking of sex and booze.

Marco Santi sat above it all like a proud Alpha observing a flourishing pack.  He had enthroned himself on one of the elegant wingback chairs near the fireplace, pupils blown from his own substances and half-exposed chest glistening in the weak light.  He was King of this debauched court, surrounded by his simpering ministers and confidants.  As a girl slipped off to get him a drink, he realized there was only one person who wasn’t fawning…and it was the one person who should have been, damnit.

He looked around for his boyfriend and couldn’t see him anywhere.  It annoyed him, the irritation crawling up under his skin like a burning itch.

The host waved one of his ‘boys’ over, “Chaz, you seen the missus?”

The burly man he’d called over, nearly falling-down drunk, shook his head like a great, slow beast of burden, “Haven’t seen your little housewife anywhere.”

Marco frowned, “You go and you find him, Chaz.  He knew the party was tonight and he knows better than to not show.  When you find him, bring him to me.”

Chaz nodded and lumbered off to go look for Marco’s boyfriend somewhere out in the midst of all the chaos.  Temperamental Marco stewed in his kingly seat, plastering on a false smile while the pretty girl returned with his drink.  You know, she was a pretty hot number herself…leggy with fiery curls down to her ass (and what an ass it was).  The man idled away the minutes without his boyfriend chatting her up, already forming an excellent plan where he would ‘convince’ his boy that sharing would be nice for once.  Hell, it would set a sexy precedent (and it would mean he’d have somewhere to get his dick wet when his pernickety lover wasn’t in the damn mood).

He looked up in surprise when Chaz returned with his ‘missus’, holding him by the arm, “Found him in the garden, Marco.  Said he was getting some air.”

“Yeah, we’ll there’s air everywhere and he can get it in here.”

The dark-eyed Marco eyed his prize up and down, taking it all in.  For all that he had a wandering eye, he had to admit that his boy was a pretty, pretty bit of tail...just masculine enough that dominating him gave Marco a thrill, but just feminine enough that it was easy.  He was slim and long, pale and very lightly freckled across the bridge of his nose.  The lashes surrounding his sleepy, china blue eyes were thick and gave him a doe-like appearance.  He was currently wearing a pair of blue jeans and a tight t-shirt (the only kind Marco let him get away with wearing in the house). 

Marco reached up and grabbed him by the hips, pulling him forward.

“Bernie,” he cooed with false gentility, “Baby, you know when you don’t have some fun at my parties it makes me look boring, right?”

Bernard reached up and laid his hands over Marco’s, biting his lower lip, “Sorry…I was just getting dizzy.”

“You’ll have time to sleep it off tomorrow.  Now, you’ve left me alone for over an hour, baby.  How are you gonna make that up to me?”

He had a terrible, wonderful idea.

His jeans were already tight with the thought of it.

He thought he saw a flicker of resentment in Bernard’s eyes, but it was so brief it could well have been blamed on the drugs or the drink.  His Bernie was a push-over and a regular woman about shit.  Marco almost wished he DID have some actual sass to him, but only as much as could be beaten or fucked out of him as it suited his lover.  That would be hot, he could happily admit.  Still, imagined or not, the expression was gone in an instant and Bernard was moving to perch on one arm of the chair.

“I don’t know…” he said, eyes flicking off to the side demurely.

“Good thing I do, sugar,” Marco replied as his hand slid to the button of his boyfriend’s jeans, popping it and starting to go inside.

Bernard grabbed his wrist, “Not here…”

“You’ve gotta make up for your bad behavior…so be good and take ‘em off, yeah? You’ll like it.  You always do,” Marco leered, glutted on power and illicit substances.

He wrapped his hand around his boyfriend’s dick and gave it a stroke even while the slender boy squirmed, uncomfortable with doing it in public.  Marco looked around and noticed they were already getting some attention and it fired his blood up.  He wasn’t going to give up on this idea now.  He left off Bernard’s cock long enough to fight his shirt off, throwing it into the crowd despite the other man’s protests and struggles.

Bernard tried to get out of the situation, “Marco, no…I don’t want to do this in front of your friends.”

“You kiss me in front of my friends.  You sit on my lap in front of my friends,” he growled into Bernie’s neck, biting down on the soft flesh there while he tried to roll the other man’s jeans down his hips.

His boyfriend hissed at the bite, “It’s not the same.”

Marco leaned in and muttered against Bernard’s ear, “How about this? If you embarrass me in front of all these people, I will kick you out of this house and I’d better never see your ass around here again.”

There was a long moment of silence and indecision before the smaller man lowered his eyes and stood, starting to peel his jeans down.  Marco licked his lips, proud that he’d gotten to his boyfriend’s soft spot (the guy had a deep love for the house and the threat of expulsion worked nicely).  He noticed a lot of his guests were watching now and starting to hoot and holler at them.  They knew what was happening and they wanted a new high to feast on…an exhibition to compliment their decadence.

Marco would oblige.

He waved Bernard over to the rug in front of the fireplace and noticed that the boy wouldn’t look at him, eyes still down.   That was fine.  He didn’t need the smaller man looking at him for this.  He stood up behind the other and helped yank his jeans down, feeling the eyes of the crowd on him like a brand, feeling the electricity of it exciting his already straining hard-on.  He shoved Bernard over, watching as his boyfriend fell to his knees on the rug, jeans tripping him up around his ankles, hands going out to catch himself.  It put him in a fucking delicious position of submission.  It was almost perfect.

There were cat-calls as he pushed Bernard’s shoulders to the rug, pinning him so his ass was up in the air while he choked on wool fibers.

He tried to cough out while the big man’s hands wrapped around his small waist, “M-Marco…slow down…”

Marco was on top of the damn world.  There was no way he was slowing down.  His skin was burning with pleasure and her knew Bernard could keep up when he just shut up and quit his whining.  Nearly gasping with desire, he pressed the fat mushroom head of his dick against the dry pucker of his boyfriend’s ass, coaxing out a bit of pre-cum so he wouldn’t have to fight as hard to get in.  The man underneath him shifted, trying to squirm free, escape and cool down. 

That wasn’t happening.

With the ferocity of a rutting bull, Marco shoved himself into his smaller lover, pushing until that tight ass was cradled against his pelvis.  Everything was heat and friction, especially when Bernard clenched down on him (likely in pain and shock), the other man’s body fighting to push him out.  At least Bernard wasn’t escaping now, pinned by his boyfriend’s penis like a butterfly in a case. 

Euphoric, Marco didn’t wait for his lover to adjust, just began to thrust with all the force of a wild animal.  The room filled with shouting and drugged cheering, the wet slaps of skin against skin and, beneath everything else, Bernard’s grunts and cries of discomfort as he was fucked into like a whore.  Hands forced his hips up even while the sharp thrusts shoved his shoulders down and forward, leaving him splayed and wanton.

Drowning in the moment, Marco never saw the expression of dead-eyed hate that crossed his boyfriend’s face.

~~~

The party had died down eventually and the guests had been chauffeured home towards the early morning.  Marco was lazing out on the rug by himself, his boyfriend having disappeared shortly after their little ‘show’…probably gone off to clean up or something.  It hadn’t been a great loss anyway.  The display had gotten that redhead all fired up and, without Bernie around to explain things to, he’d fucked her right there on the very same carpet amidst more applause and cheers.  He’d have to try this at every party, he mused, the warmth of the fireplace against his side.

He didn’t hear the feet that approached him.

All he felt was a pair of unforgiving, inhumanly strong hands wrapped over his shoulders, bruising and dragging.

Marco looked up in shock to see his boyfriend, shirtless still and cold in a way he normally never looked, “Bernie?”

The other didn’t speak, his expression shuttered and dark as he used all of his unnatural strength to bodily force Marco towards the fireplace.  The bigger man let out a terrified shout when he realized what was happening, but couldn’t muster the strength to stop it. 

After that it was agony until the world went black and Bernard just watched him burn.

Too bad it hadn’t lasted.


End file.
